


The Lines We Draw

by goldensnitchesgetstitches



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fem!Crowley, Hells Angels, Humor, Other, Slow Burn, Trans!Crowley, Transmisogyny, Transphobia, more food porn than a hannibal episode, nb!Aziraphale, or as slow as i can get which probably isn't very
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-23 14:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20893760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldensnitchesgetstitches/pseuds/goldensnitchesgetstitches
Summary: Aziraphale watches over their Flower Shop, Eden, with an eagle eye. But when rent goes up they are left with no other option than to downsize and rent out the extra space. Unfortunately the only applicant has a tattoo and body mod business, a partially-stolen Bentley, and regrettable connections to Hell's Angels.Pride, prejudice, and shenanigans ensue.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> cw: Rather graphic explanation of lobotomies. Shadwell deliberately misgenders Aziraphale as "he," Crowley doesn't know Aziraphale's pronouns at this point and so copies him.

Downsizing the shop floor and putting the other half of the space up for rent had seemed like a perfectly splendid and reasonable idea at the time. The majority of Eden's orders were for large events - weddings, funerals, and the like - and much as Aziraphale enjoyed swanning through a forest of green leaves and colourful blossoms, they had been forced to accept that it just wasn't feasible. Now, two very well-read letters lay on the back-room table before them, each regarded with as much distaste as the other. The first was a letter announcing the yearly hike in rent along the Soho promenade of an additional two hundred pounds, moving Eden's income from comfortable-at-best to barely-scraping-by. The second was the single application letter Aziraphale had received in the month since they had posted the sub-letting on every property website that existed, and even some newspapers. It was, unfortunately, terribly well-written, well-referenced, and promised prompt and up-to-date rental payments. There was just one problem.

_Astoreth Tattoo, Piercing and Body Modification Parlour_

Tattoos, fine. Piercings, more than fine - they had two of their own. But _body modification?_ Aziraphale had looked that up and it wasn't that they were judgmental, it was more that they had gotten a strange, queasy sort of feeling every time they saw another sclera a colour that it _really had no business being_, or something implanted somewhere it probably shouldn't be. Aziraphale didn't know how long they would survive having to see such things on a daily basis. So they had put it off and put it off, hoping for a miracle - perhaps in the form of a nice cafe that sold a wide variety of teas and homemade pastries, or an independant bookshop, or even (and they shuddered even to hope for it) a Coffee Club franchise. But no such application had been forthcoming and now Aziraphale had a day left to make rent. They sighed and looked at their phone like it had grossly betrayed them (which it had). Then they sighed again for good measure and picked up the phone. It was answered on the second ring.

"Yello!"

"Good Afternoon, I'm looking for A.J. Crowley?"

"Speak- OI DON'T YOU DARE - sorry, not you. Speaking!"

Alarmed at the muffled yelling, and not expecting the cheerfully melodic voice at the other end, Aziraphale floundered.

"Yes! This is, uhm, this is Aziz, sorry, Aziraphale-calling-from-Eden-Floristry-how-may- how are you?" Aziraphale could have kicked themselves, falling back on their customer service voice was helpful in times of crisis but it certainly had its drawbacks - like their mouth speaking before their brain caught up.

"Oh! I'm... well, thank you. Is this about the floor-space for lease?" The change in tone was immediate and noticable. Gone was the cheer and good humour as Crowley's voice dropped like a stone into hesitant and guarded professionalism. It was clear to Aziraphale that the person on the other end was not expecting this to be an enjoyable call.

"Sorry to be leaving everything until the last minute, but I will need two weeks of rent in advance by tomorrow, after that you are welcome to come and collect the keys to the shop and move in any time you would like." Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure if they were able to keep the weariness out of their voice. "Assuming, of course, that you haven't accepted an offer elsewhere. I can email you the paperwork as soon as we're done here, or you're welcome to pop by the shop and fill it in if you have time, or any questions about the lease."

"L-Lovely, thanks, uh, email should be fine. Thanks."

Aziraphale was left staring at their phone as the line went dead.

"Well doesn't that just take the cake." They muttered. "Bloody rude."

And then, because their nerves were frayed from a single phone exchange, they went to make a very strong cup of tea. And because they had just thought about cake, they helped themselves to their third slice that day of the large emergency Victoria Sponge that sat prettily in the refrigerator. It wasn't nearly as delicious as the first two slices had been. There was nothing else for it. Despite the looming threat of being late paying rent, Aziraphale hustled the single customer out of their store ("just five minutes, please, my wife loves jonquils") and closed up shop. The only thing that would fix their current mood was a nice, relaxing bout of book-browsing, and they had just the place in mind.

***

Crowley threw the phone down like it was a hot coal and whirled around to share the happy news with her friends. She was met with the rather horrifying sight of dream-team Hastur and Ligur fencing with her stick-and-poke needles. All thoughts of fulfilled daydreams flew out of her head.

"WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SAY YOU TWATS?!"

"Well, first you told us that they were very sharp and dangerous-" Hastur began with a lazy grin.

"And really, my dear, you should know better than to tell us these things-"

"And then you told us they were sterile-"

"So we figured it wouldn't be a problem if any accidents happened-"

"But _then_ you told us not to-"

"-Under any circumstances-"

"-Play with them."

"Then you were on the phone, and we figured you wouldn't notice."

"Not to mention you basically challenged us!"

"You know us, we do love a challenge!"

Crowley hated when they ganged up on her like this. It was a tactic designed to fluster and disarm. Unfortunately for them, however, she was used to it by now. She ground her teeth and slowly advanced on them.

"If either of you bleed on my carpet, _you_ will be paying for the cleaning bills, and that's only if I don't make you both get on your knees with baking soda and a toothbrush _yourselves_. Now put those down and get. out."

At least Ligur had the decency to put down the needle he was holding. Hastur on the other hand shrugged and settled further into the couch.

"What if we don't?"

One day Crowley was going to punch him in his smug face, but today was not that day. Instead, she leaned over and picked up the discarded needle and tested its point with the pad of a thumb.

"Do you know what a lobotomy is?" She asked brightly, not looking up from the bright spot of blood beginning to well and bead. If she had, she might have seen the two men glance nervously at each other. They didn't and she knew this, the same way that she knew they hated and feared anything that couldn't be solved by copious amounts of hitting. Crowley drew the moment out, pulling the needle away from her skin and lazily licking at the bleeding spot with a forked tongue.

"They used to do it to... troublesome people in the old days." She began, condensing decades of complicated mental health history into as few words as possible. "This needle here would fit nice and smoothly into the space between your eyeball and the corner of your eye. Oh don't worry, you wouldn't feel a thing once the point reached your brain." She finally looked up at two pale and faintly horrified faces and grinned, before waggling the needle at them for emphasis. "Then they'd just, sort of do something like this, scrambling your brains up a bit and pulling it out. Job done! If you were lucky you might just be able to get up and walk away, but if not... well. You both already have the brain capacities of an oyster so there might not actually be much difference, but you get the general idea."

Barring the threat of school maths tests, Crowley didn't think she'd ever seen the two of them look so much like they wanted to throw up.

"My needle, please?" She asked sweetly, holding out a hand into which Hastur practically threw the needle he'd held. "There's a good lad, now, off you go!"

She would have appreciated more of a scamper as they attempted to get away and out the door as fast as their protein-stuffed legs could carry them, but, she figured, you couldn't have everything. Her momentary good mood dampened when Hastur leant his head back around the doorframe.

"You'll pay for this, Crowley." He said in his most menacing tone, before whirling around and storming off. 

Crowley sighed at the empty space he left.

"I already have my dear, I already have."

The apartment suddenly felt too large and too quiet, and she was filled with a restlessness that struck like a lightning-bolt. She picked up her keys and marched swiftly out the door. It was only when she reached the bottom of the stairs that she realised she had no idea where she was going to go, or what to do, and for a moment she flailed.

_You're welcome to pop in any time you like_.

The voice on the phone sprang unbidden into her mind. Crowley had never been welcome _anywhere,_ let alone any time she liked. It was decided then. With only the slightest spring in her step she tripped out to the Bentley that she'd only half-stolen (and if anyone asked, purchased legally with the money from her parents estates), revved the engine a few more times than usual, and for good measure executed a textbook-perfect handbrake turn into the flow of traffic. It took Crowley ten minutes to drive to Soho and find parking - a record for her, even if she _did_ leave the Bentley in a no stopping zone and therefore should not be able to count this as a win. But she would.

When Crowley reached the address she'd not only written down in her diary, on her phone, _and_ memorised, she was surprised to find it closed and dark. She checked, then double-check the google maps listing for Eden, where opening hours were written as:

Monday: CLOSED

Tuesday: Open 10-7

Wednesday: Open 10-7

Thursday: Open 11-9

Friday: Open 10-7

Saturday: Open 10-7

Sunday: CLOSED

By rights, at 3pm on a Wednesday the florist should still have been open and yet, Crowley could barely make out the green fronds pressed up against the cool, dark glass like an outtake from The Day of the Triffids. She pushed her face nearly flush against the glass, tested the lock and even jogged slowly around the back to see if there was another entry there. There was, but it was also solidly locked and she hadn't brought her picks with her. She sighed and pushed her hair out of her face. Now what. A rustle and clatter made her nearly jump out of her skin as a grizzled old man emptied a plastic bag of metal tins into his dustbin.

"Wot'r you skulking around for like the spawn of Satan?" He growled as Crowley attempted to collect herself and look as much as possible like she was meant to be there, which, she supposed, she sort of was.

"I'm looking for the owner of the florist? Name of Aziraphale? I'm supposed to be renting extra floorspace? Sorry, I was told I could just come around whenever, but..." She didn't know why she'd thrown in the apology but the longer she talked the more the man glared at her and the more uncertain she became. The man sniffed.

"That pansy? If 'e's not there then 'e's gallivanted off to look at antiques, books or wotever it is you young toffs do when yer supposed to be partaking in an 'onest days work."

"Uhh.. thanks, I'll have to go have a look around." Crowley took a step backwards, but the man either didn't notice or didn't care that she was trying to politely but firmly end the conversation. He pulled a pipe from one of his many pockets and lit it, looking her up and down in a way that wasn't predatory but deeply uncomfortable nonetheless.

"Wot is it you do then?" He asked thoughtfully, sucking deeply on the pipe and speaking with a great exhalation of smoke.

"I'm a tattoo artist, Mr..."

"It's _Sergeant _to you missy, Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell of The Witchfinder Army if yer feelin' fancy. Say, 'ow many nipples 'ave you got then?"

Crowley took another step back, trying very hard not to lick her lips.

"Oh, you know. The normal amount." She said airily. "Well, if Mr Aziraphale isn't here, I'll just see myself out, maybe have a wander, I'm sure I have his phone number somewhere..." She made a great pantomime of looking into the pockets of her leather jacket. "I'll just be off then, you have a lovely day now _Sergeant!"_

She gave a bright smile and trotted off down the road before Shadwell could say anything else, determined to out as much distance a she could between her and the irate man.

"'nother bloody southern pansy" Shadwell muttered around his pipe as he watched her walk back down the alley. "'ole neighbourhood's goin' straight to hell in an handbasket."

He spat thickly into the tin-filled bin and marched up the stairs to his equally grizzled flat over the now joint florist/tattoo shop.


	2. Chapter 2

After an hour of drifting in and out of the many small bars, dives, _wunderkammers_ and boutiques crowding the Soho backstreets, hoping to catch a glimpse of a person she wouldn't have been able to recognise anyway, it was with no small amount of bitterness that Crowley turned a corner to find the Bentley's wheels had been locked, and a ticket stuck under the window wipers.

"You utter tit." She muttered under her breath as she snatched the ticket away and tore it into tiny pieces. "What did you expect?" 

She kicked ineffectually at the locks, succeeding only in scuffing her patent boots. Naturally, this only made her angrier and her long slog home was less of a walk and more a determined _stomp_. At least she'd finally gotten herself a nice copy of Shakespeare's Comedies from a bookshop she'd stopped into, so the trip hadn't been a complete waste. Still, she almost regretted the not-quite-frivolity (she'd wanted one for a while so it wasn't exactly a spur-of-the-moment purchase, just unplanned). The weight of the paper-wrapped book only increased the closer she got to her apartment, and her bad mood with it. Even her normally staunch _Monstera_ was quivering in fear as the door slammed open, and the small pot of violets on the kitchen bench were less _shrinking_ and more _afraid-for-their-very-lives_. A certain florist might have cried at the way Crowley threw the heavy _Comedies_ onto her coffee-table, disturbing the thin needles still resting there, sending them scattered and rolling every-which-way. Except to sigh heavily (_fecking_ typical_,_ she thought) she ignored them, opting instead to reach for her wine rack.

"Now that's my kind of lucky dip!" She grinned, flourishing a bottle of C_hateau Latour _Cabernet Sauvignon-Merlot, and removing the cork with her teeth.

Men would have sighed and made a hurried exit at the way her forked tongue wrapped around the neck of the bottle, and she took long, unhurried gulps of the red wine. Colour rose in her cheeks as the bottle emptied, and by the time she paused to draw breath it was nearly half empty. Filled with false confidence, she rustled around in the bottom-most kitchen drawer until she found the small bound packet she'd been looking for. Whistling cheerily, she pocketed the makeup-brush case full of lockpicks, picked up the bottle of wine, and swayed back out into the London evening with a hip-swinging prowl that many would later describe as making them feel "scared _and_ horny".

When she reached her car there was another ticket stuck behind her wipers. When she glanced at it her blood ran cold.

"Fuck this shit." She muttered, shoving the sliver of card into a pocket and sliding into the car, "What a load of absolute bollocks. Bollocks, shite and fuck." 

Still swearing she shoved the key into the ignition and swung the Bentley towards Piccadilly - if she'd had to put up with everything she had today, and everything she had to do tonight, she was going to make sure she had a bloody good time in between. The lights didn't dare turn red as she sped through the London backstreets to one of the few English restaurants in which she would dare be seen. Crowley had gotten where she was through blood, sweat and tears - mostly other peoples - and she would milk her brief successes as much as she could.

"Ms Crowley, how lovely to see you again!" The doorman exclaimed at the sight of her, only the slightest hint of a worried crease forming between his eyes.

"Charles, light of my life, it is wonderful to see you as always." To Crowley's credit, she was genuinely happy to see the portly man, and she kissed both his cheeks enthusiastically. "I can't stay for too long, work is busy as ever!"

"Ain't that the truth." He grinned and bowed his head slightly as she marched on through to the restaurant where a white-faced maitre d' practically scurried over to meet her before she had even reached the entrance.

"Madame, I am terribly sorry, your favourite table is currently occupied and we must ask you to wait, if you wouldn't mind taking a seat at the bar...?" His sentence drifted off hopefully and Crowley actually felt a little bad to refuse him.

"I'm perfectly happy to wait." She said with the polite smile of one who is about to ruin the day of a member of the social elite. 

The poor bastards mask slipped a little and his left eye twitched ever so slightly.

"Of course, madame. I shan't be a moment."

If his back was a little stiffer, a little straighter than it had been... Well, it wasn't something that a good strong dash of gin and a staffroom bitch session couldn't fix.

Crowley waited exactly three minutes before heading to her table. If the maitre d' was taking this long to get back to her then it meant the poor dear was being chewed out and really it wasn't his fault people had no manners these days. 

When she spied the dumpy rich twat at her table she sighed, and ushered away the maitre d'. After that, it was almost too easy to send them scampering away with their tail between their legs, and she quickly had the table to herself. They had actually thought that they could talk back to her, and it had actually caught her off guard - she'd clearly spent too much time with Hastur and Ligur, a horrible thought really. But, she thought, letting another perfectly marinated sliver of eggplant melt on her tongue, their verbal sparring match had been more fun than she'd had in a long time. It was almost a shame she would never see them again.

***

Window-shopping and actual shopping had not proved to be as therapeutic as Aziraphale hoped. Among other things, at one point they had turned into the plays section of their favourite rare books store- hoping perhaps for a new limited edition of _The Importance of Being Ernest_, or Dante's _La Commedia - _only to come face-to-chest with a tall, severe-looking woman in black, leafing through a leather-bound first edition copy of _The Arden Shakespeare Comedies_, tongue stuck between her teeth in concentration. Aziraphale's consternation wasn't due to the fact that someone else was in the usually deserted section, or even that she was wearing sunglasses indoors and on a cloudy day. No, it was the faint but unmistakable fact that the woman's tongue was split in two right down the middle. They had stared transfixed as she moved each side independently of one another, apparently completely unaware she was doing so.

"Better get used to it, my dear" Aziraphale said under their breath, "This is going to be your every day soon enough." 

But, they decided, it didn't have to be their _today._ So they turned on their heel and left, heading instead for the one place that would be sure to piece together their shattered nerves - The Ritz's finest restaurant. Business might not exactly have been booming but Aziraphale had certain priorities and knew how to save. It just so happened that making rent was not one of these priorities. 

It said a lot about them that Aziraphale was on first-name terms with most of the staff, mostly those things involved the anxious yelling of their bank balance.

"My dear Charles, you're still here? Last time we spoke you _insisted_ that the next time I saw you it would be in the countryside over a glass of the oldest whiskey you could find!" Aziraphale almost had to yell over the sound of a hidden clock tolling the hour. The doorman grinned.

"Soon enough, soon enough. Is it that time of the week already?"

"Oh no my dear, I'm a bit early but I've just had the most _dreadful day."_

"Ah well, I better not get in your way then."

Aziraphale smiled and continued on. In their first lucky break of the day, their favourite table was unoccupied and Marcel, the maitre d' showed them right to their table. Blissfully, they ordered a little extra than they normally would, opting for the full 12-courses rather than tailoring their usual 6 courses to include the cheese course their tastebuds currently demanded. The hors d'ouevres had been perfect, the amuse-bouche simply divine. They should have known it would not last long.

"I'm exceptionally sorry sir, but we're going to have to ask you to change tables."

Aziraphale was almost too struck with disbelief to wince at the pronoun. At least the maitre d' had the decency to look abashed at the impropriety.

"But I still have two courses!" They exclaimed. "And this is my favourite table."

"I cannot apologise enough for this inconvenience. We would of course be pleased-"

"Is everything quite all right?" Enquired a familiar scottish burr, but one that Aziraphale couldn't quite place.

They turned their attention to the newcomer and were startled to see the alternative woman from the bookshop standing over them. She had swapped her leather jacket for a modishly structured blazer, and chunky patent boots for towering stilleto heels, but Aziraphale was sure they were looking at the same person. Even if she _was_ wearing sunglasses indoors, and while dining at The Ritz no less! Typically, this was the moment Aziraphale decided that they had been pushed around by other people for far too long and now was the right time to stand up for themselves. The woman had already ruined their favourite bookshop, they weren't going to let her ruin their favourite restaurant too. They dug their heels in.

"I'm sorry Marcel, but I don't care if the bloody Queen herself asks for this table-"

"What about the devil?" Again, the woman cut into their sentence.

"You could be the very Lord himself and I would still politely ask you sit elsewhere. This is my favourite table you see."

"Unfortunately for you it's my favourite too. Ordinarily I might not mind as there are _plenty_ of other tables free, but today I have to insist." She leaned forward with a hand on the table. "You see, _Angel_, I have a new business venture I _really. must. celebrate_." 

Aziraphale didn't miss the sound of grinding teeth.

"And I've had a terribly trying day that needs rectifying." They shot back.

With a studied care Aziraphale could appreciate, having mastered it themselves, the woman removed and folded her dark glasses. When she was sure they were stowed safely away she finally looked back at them with a startlingly bright hazel glare marred only by pupils that appeared to be leaking. The overall effect was startling, but ruined by her general unpleasant attitude - Aziraphale's current main focus.

"Your days could get a lot more _trying_ if you continue to test me." She ground out.

Aziraphale snorted. They'd dealt with bullies like this woman before, hoity-toity toffs who thought they were better than everyone else simply because they knew someone-who-knew-someone or had a lot of money. They smiled coldly.

"Is that supposed to be a threat my dear? Surely not, no-one would ever be so crass, so _obvious_."

They were rewarded with the sight of the woman's eyes widening in surprise and her mouth dropping ever-so-slightly open to form a small "o". Confident, Aziraphale focused on dabbing a nonexistent crumb from the corner of their mouth. If they had looked up however, they would have seen a nasty gleam enter the woman's eyes, and an even nastier grin spread slowly across her face.

"If it was," she replied, practically oozing into the seat opposite, "then both of us would know better than to mention it." It was at that precise moment that a waiter chose to slide Aziraphale's soup course onto the table - a lovely burnt miso and eggplant consomme sure to warm the coldest cockles of any heart, and Aziraphale's fifth favourite comfort food."You'd better take that to go An- actually, is that the eggplant consomme?" The woman leaned forward in curiosity and Aziraphale's mouth dropped in horror as a spoon-wielding hand shot out to taste his meal. She laughed. "It is! Oh how delightful, it's been an absolute age!"

"Y-you can't just do that!" 

Even to their own ears, Aziraphale sounded childish and it earned the response it deserved - the woman rolled her eyes.

"Oh don't be _boring_ darling, not when you were doing so well. You can leave now."

Aziraphale took this as their cue to gather the last remains of their dignity and sweep from the room with their head held high. They hoped the woman enjoyed paying their bill as much as she had enjoyed their fifth favourite meal.

It was a testament to how sorry they were feeling for themselves that Aziraphale stopped by their local Indian takeaway restaurant on their way home. There was no comfort food quite like a delicious selection of curries, dhaal and naan, and it was without a second thought that they indulged in adding a few pakora and gulab juman. 

It was on this wafting breeze of spices and oil that they settled into their most comfortable chair, a book and pot of tea on the side-table next to a large bottle of whiskey. Aziraphale sighed in relief and delight at once again being in the comfort of their home and having a delicious meal before them.

As a child, Aziraphale had sort of wished for an archnemesis, an enemy to give their life an extra bit of pizzazz, a hint of extra purpose. Never would they have guessed this person would take the form of a tall Scottish countess (they made the countess part up themselves because it was terribly romantic and anyway, who else would have that sort of attitude). Next thing they knew they would be journeying across moors in the company of several lovable rogues, possibly losing someone precious in the process, and taking part in deeds of great derring-do. Aziraphale, it was clear, read too many novels. 

Now they appeared to actually have an enemy it was not cracking up to what they'd once thought it would be. At least there were strong cups of tea to be had, and, after a second thought they added a copious dash of whiskey to the cup, sending a cold shiver down the spines of whiskey and tea lovers worldwide. 

_Honestly_, they thought, _why do I ever leave the house?_ Aziraphale fervently hoped they would never see the countess again.

***

The building was almost empty when Crowley walked through the entrance.

"You're early!" She said to the man in the chair. "That suits me just fine, and I'm sure you want to get this over and done with. Are you nervous? Of course you are, this is your first time here isn't it. Now, Just let me look after you-" 

She continued to prattle on as she removed various items from her bag. Unrolling a brush organizer, Crowley laughed with fake relief.

"Thank goodness, for a moment there I thought I might have brought my makeup!"

Carefully, she selected a tool and turned to the man in the chair with her most winning smile.

"When I tell you to, I want you to take a deep breath, and then breathe out. You understand? Good! Now, it's just a little pinch, it's nothing really, over in a second. And breathe in-"

It was not just a little pinch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe watching all that hannibal has finally paid off! it's weirdly hard to come up with ideas or fancy foods. writing this chapter made me really hungry and I'm particularly craving rogan josh.


End file.
